Battlefield
by Jenni N
Summary: Some things are just too much for one person to handle alone.


Why was the sky so dark and red? Where did the blue go? Days before, _hours_ before, the sky was a glorious blue. There had been soft white clouds floating above them and the sun had been bright, warm, and loving.

Why was the sky the color of red? Why was it that the crimson on their blades was a good sign but the crimson in the heavens was so foreboding?

The grass was stained and trampled over in the fields. Were these not the fields that many soldiers have played in as children years and years before? These fields were the same ones where one small boy might have made an attempt to catch a rabbit much too quick for him. How was it that the same spot several years later, the same boy-now a full grown man and a mercenary- died from a volley of barbed arrows, a rain of death and tragedy that many had fallen into?

Why was it so cold? The weather had drastically worsened over the course of battle but the coldness was not related to the weather. The atmosphere was dark and chilly. Its' personification would be heartless and cruel, for the unfortunate cloak of war and blood took its toll on both mercenary and Fomor.

It was silent. The cries of battle had died like the majority of the participants have. Bodies strewn over the battlefield lay rotting in a bath of the red blood from human and Fomor alike. It did not matter who was who, for Death took mercilessly from either party.

A single figure stood amidst a sea of corpses. Armor, worn and heavily dented, gleamed malevolently in what little sunlight the dark clouds allowed to filter through. His two swords, both as bloodthirsty as he, were bathed in the crimson of enemies, but the figure cannot be too sure if the blood belonged only to the enemy. The chaos was unbelievable and it wouldn't surprise him if his comrades contributed to the blood now dripping into his cracked gauntlets.

There were arrows piercing his shoulder where his shoulder-plates failed to protect. He had no idea where his helm had fallen; it had been knocked off long ago near the beginning of battle. He would not make an effort to locate it, however. What was the point?

It dawned upon him that he had a grievous wound in his side, but he did not notice it before because the pain of the wound felt like nothing to him. His experience allowed him to become used to the agony, but he would be a fool if he was no concerned. Whether he felt the pain or not, his body would take its toll regardless.

He took a step, just one, and felt how heavy his armor was despite losing forty percent of it. He shed the remains of his breastplate and gauntlets. He did not care. He only needed assistance. He truly did not care.

Four steps later he had already stepped on human entrails from a friend of his; the intestines clung to his boots for another two steps before it tore off and became squished under his foot.

Seven steps from where he stood, he noticed something moving in a heap of fallen soldiers. Upon inspection, he recognized that it was a Fomor, still alive, but near death.

Swords drawn, he walked slowly towards the figure, breathing heavily with eyes filled with despair and desperation.

He did not care. It was an enemy. He truly did not care.

No. He did not _want_ to care.

"I have painted the dark of yesterday, yet another crimson day awaits," he whispered, approaching the Fomor.

A single lunge, that was all. A single thrust of his sword and the enemy would be dead, heading towards the afterlife and away from this world. Away from this living nightmare.

It was quick.

The blood painted the corpses below the Fomor whom grew limp.

"Answer me, Goddess..." he breathed, slowly pulling out his blade, "where is my paradise?"

So much blood had been shed for the Goddess Morrighan to descend from Erinn and take them back with her, to the land where no one dies, no one gets sick, and where there is only happiness. The promise to return, the promise of paradise in return for the eradication of the Fomors.

When will the war end? Why the Fomors? Why did they have to kill them all? Were they following their free will in order to reach Erinn or were they deceived by the state and church?

"My enemies scream in silence from their ripped lungs," he said hoarsely. Staring at the dead Fomor's eyes, he added under his breath, "Their eyes fall dark in my shadow." There was a lingering trace of fear in the eyes. What did the Fomor feel right then and there? Mad because Death arrived much too soon or happy to be out of that living hellhole?

"Morrighan..." There was blood in his mouth now and it dripped from his corners of his lips and down his chin.

"Have you forsaken us?"

He raised his fingers to catch the blood. Cold blood. It was cold to his touch. Was this his blood? How did it come to be in his mouth? Or was it the blood of the enemy? He did not know.

And he did not care.

Friends and comrades alike had been slayed during the fight. He knew this, and yet he could not bring himself to believe despite seeing their deaths before his eyes.

Was fighting for this paradise worth it? Why not just drop dead and rest for all of eternity? Why waste energy fighting for nothing? And if Erinn surely existed and Morrighan truly promised, then when would they finally leave? Was killing the answer or was the Goddess using them as pawns for her own gains?

If the Goddess really was using them, what was the point of living if the Goddess intended for humanity to suffer war in pursuit of a false paradise?

Lies. All of it. There was no paradise. To prove it, he would even point his own blade towards his bare neck. He did not care. A single lunge, after all, would work.

"Lann."

A voice called him out from the depths of his dangerous thoughts, thoughts that could have convinced him to take his own life.

Lann slowly turned around and grimly nodded at Fiona. "You survived," he said.

Fiona was in no better state than he. Her shield bore arrows of all kinds, many of which had been snapped upon impact of blunt maces or cut by sharp edges. Her skin, once fair at the beginning, was now layered with a combination of dirt and blood. Her eyes were now dull and dark but her stance was still graceful and strong.

"The same can be said to you," she said softly.

They wearily looked over the other. Fiona stared at the blood at Lann's side and Lann stared at the large gash across her thigh. "You can still stand?" he asked quietly.

Fiona nodded.

"Walk," he said.

She walked, but she walked slowly with great difficulty.

Lann reached out to her with an expression so soft that it would be hard to believe he was partially responsible for a grand number of kills. In a voice that didn't seem to fit a mighty warrior, he said gently, "Allow me to help you back, Fiona."

Fiona looked down at her injury and then back at Lann. "You need help as well. I cannot imagine that your walk is better than mine."

"I doubt it is," he replied.

"Then let us help each other," she said.

It was a mutual agreement that they would depend on each other's support, for who else did they have?

"Fiona?"

"Yes, Lann?"

Lann closed his eyes, trusting his comrade to help lead him across the field of the dead. He listened to the silence that enveloped them. Oh how he had once longed for the silence after hours of screams and cries. The noise would drive him to insanity if it had continued any longer than it had. How close he had been to death, and not a death by enemy hand, but by his own.

"Thank you for saving me."

Fiona did not say anything, but Lann knew she understood.

As the two trudged along the crimson field, under the dark sky where no stars dared to reveal their faces, Lann felt his twin swords drop to the ground.

And he did not care. They had done their job. He realized, just then, just how light he felt without them at his side.


End file.
